


Absinthe and Leather

by reapertownusa



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe, Angst, Bondage, Consent Issues, Dark, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Exhibitionism, Humiliation, Hurt Dean Winchester, M/M, Nudity, One Shot, Restraints, Spanking, Torture, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, evil!Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-05
Updated: 2011-04-05
Packaged: 2017-10-17 15:11:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reapertownusa/pseuds/reapertownusa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is hosting a party and Dean is the guest of honor...or at least the starring attraction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Absinthe and Leather

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Nothing terribly explicit, but some references to past non-con/torture and a heavy helping of current dub-con and abuse. Mostly just unwholesome strappado bondage fun.

There had been a point when Dean had still believed that everything would be okay. That things would get better, that he would be able to save his brother. For over a year he had believed that Sam was still in there somewhere. Another year passed and he grew doubtful. A third year and he’d admitted defeat.

At that point he should have walked away. Should have, but didn’t – couldn’t. Whatever that thing was now it still wore his brother’s face. It was still his responsibility. So he played the part of the good brother, Sammy’s perfect bitch, because someday he would need that trust to kill his brother. That was if he ever found the sac to do it.

What he tried to sell off as tactical advantage was a cheap line of bullshit. He didn’t even know who he was trying to convince anymore. If he had been doing his damn job he would have fired a shot from the Colt between Sam’s eyes three years ago. Sam kept the gun loaded on the bed stand to remind him how weak he was. They both knew Dean would shoot the bullet through his own skull first. There had been more than a couple of occasions when he’d gone so far as to cock the hammer. He should have just pulled the damn trigger.

“The guests will be here soon,” Sam said.

Guests, better known as black eyed sons of bitches. As usual, Dean was all too aware of what the starring attraction would be. He averted his eyes to the floor he knelt on as Sam emerged from the bathroom. A large hand grasped his chin, tilting his head up to meet the eyes of what had once been his little brother.

Sam was immaculately dressed in a stuffy ass suit that Dean would have mercilessly teased him about in a different life. For his part Dean didn’t remember the feel of fabric rubbing against skin. Sam didn’t usually let him use a blanket at night. He sure as hell didn’t let him wear so much as a G-string.

“Let’s get you ready.”

There was a familiar evil glint in Sam’s eyes as he said the words. Dean didn’t so much as bother a nod in reply. It wasn’t his choice. Or rather he’d already made his bed and now he had to lie in it.

“Stand.”

And he did because he was the boy king’s faithful lapdog. All Dad’s conditioning to follow orders had finally paid off. It had saved him more than a few whippings anyway. He rose to his feet without the use of his arms, which were partially bound behind his back. Already his shoulders were aching. It wasn’t going to get better. All he had to look forward to was loosing the feeling in them entirely.

“Turn around.”

He gave his shoulders one last rolling flex before he turned, earning himself a stinging slap on the ass once he did have his back to Sam. With sharp tugs Sam worked to tighten the laces of the black leather armbinder. Each jerk of the monoglove’s bindings synched his arms closer together. His shoulders screamed in protest. Dean just clenched his jaw as Sam continued to tighten the circulation restricting leather until his elbows were as close to touching as his body would physically allow without a full dislocation of his shoulders.

“Does that hurt?”

Dean gave the expected nod. Frequently his silent confirmations were lies, this one wasn’t.

“It’s a good start. Come.”

Silently Dean followed behind Sam. It had taken a couple of years of being forcibly hauled for him to work it into his thick skull that this was easier. Either way he was going to end up where Sam wanted him. He had resisted on account of pride until he had fully considered the lack of dignity in getting dragged across the floor by a leash.

A sick part of him still wanted to laugh at the irony in all this. They finally had a home. This place was an honest to God house that was all theirs. If he didn’t look too close, Joe Blow off the streets would mistake it for a wholesome family residence.

The house was obscenely large for just two people, but becoming a dick had somehow brought out the social urges in Sam. Maybe it was just his brother embracing his new sense of normal. Sam had always liked to pretend he had friends.

There were a few things that set aside the otherwise normal entertainment area. The furnishing of immediate concern was the hook that was bolted to the ceiling and its matching partner imbedded in the floorboards. Sam guided him to stand between them. When his brother turned to retrieve some accessories Dean took in a heavy breath, or as much of one as he could with the constriction in his shoulders.

“Step into them.”

Dean couldn’t stop the annoyed eye roll that won him a matching slap on his other ass cheek. Gritting his teeth he awkwardly stepped one foot and then the others into the pair of black stilettos Sam had set on the floor. He didn’t even know where his dumb ass brother had come up with a pair large enough for his feet. Mostly Dean just wished he hadn’t. They weren’t a fashion statement - they were a damn torture device.

This little game of Sam’s was hard enough to endure with his bare feet planted hard on the floor. The stilettos forced him uneasily onto his toes making an already difficult position nearly impossible to maintain for the extended periods of time Sam required. Not to mention they just flat out hurt like a mother fucker.

“Spread your legs.” Dean obliged, but it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. “Wider.”

Despite years of conditioning that had trained his tongue to silence, his mind continued to supply a running commentary. Right now the comment that screamed the loudest was that Sam was a crazy son of a bitch if he thought his stance could widen any further. Unimpressed by his efforts, Sam retrieved the new spreader bar he thought he was using and brought it across Dean’s backside with a sound crack. It was only Sam’s quick reflexes that kept Dean from face planting on the floor.

The aching welt raising across his back was duly motivating to make him try a little harder. Sam crouched down in front of him, forcing his feet a tad farther before attaching the spreader bar to the leather cuffs at his ankles. His body wavered uncertainly at the precariously wide stance.

Satisfied, Sam took hold of the rope that hung from the ceiling’s anchor. He expertly wove it into the D-ring at the tip of the closed ended armbinder that choked the blood from Dean’s fully encased hands. Every ounce of Dean’s focus turned towards chocking down the pained moans as Sam slowly pulled the other end of the rope, wrenching his arms further and further up and behind his back.

“I want to hear you.”

At those words Dean let out a grateful sigh of relief. He let the groans escape his lips, some sincere responses to the pain, others for Sam’s amusement. If he didn’t make it sound like it hurt enough, Sam would find a way to make sure that it did.

When Sam stopped pulling the top half of Dean’s body was forced parallel with the floor, his arms locked up and over his back. It felt like his arms were being ripped from his shoulders, but it wasn’t so bad. Before he had learned it had been far worse. Sam had originally fallen for the strappado technique not as a way to showcase his big brother, but for its original intent as a form of torture. And a damn effective one at that. At least now he got to keep his feet on the ground.

With the desired angle obtained, Sam tied off the rope. He returned to rub an approving hand over Dean’s helplessly exposed, taughtly pulled ass then laid another low aimed slap across the cheeks just to watch them color. Dean didn’t have enough leeway of movement to so much as squirm.

Moving on, Sam attached the thin linked chain on the floor to the black leather collar around Dean’s neck. He tightened the chain, until Dean’s head was forced down counter to the angle of his raised arms. The added strain was nearly unbearable, but he had to bear it because this thing was still his brother.

Sam stood back to admire his work. He always wore that smug look nowadays. Dean wanted to slap it off of him. That desire was just one more useless dream. His brother had every right to gloat. After all Sam had his big brother willingly spreading it as a demon party favor.

The first few times Sam had done this he’d blindfolded Dean. That was until Sam figured out that despite the disorientation, it made it easier for Dean. It let him pretend that he wasn’t hunched over naked in the middle of a room full of former people with his ass propped up in the air and his balls hanging down as an all too tempting target. At first it had killed him seeing them, but with what he had been dead, he’d come to crave the attention.

Out of the corner of his eye he idly watched Sam stock the coffee table beside him with various items for the coming guests to use on him. Sam encouraged the imagination of his company to run wild while he settled in for a first row seat sipping whatever sissy ass drink he had become so fond of.

Dean’s shoulders were already begging for release by the time the doorbell rang for the first time that night. He eagerly anticipated the first strike of the strop or penetration that would pull his mind from the agony in his arms. The brain could only focus on one source of pain at a time and maybe that was why truth be told, he’d have to admit that he lived for nights like these.

Or it just might be that there was another reason he never pulled the trigger on that gun. History dictated that whether on earth, in heaven or in hell he was going to end up someone’s bitch. Given the choice, he’d far prefer to be Sammy’s.


End file.
